Not the I Ching
At first you drew
the lines in sand
I jumped across
then back again
‘It’s play’ you said
More lines than years
In sand – then stone
I jumped and then
Through words unsaid
More time than lines
As stone to dust
And like the last
On Arriving at Stewart Island
A fine mist swirled.
Out in the inlet the water had turned
from a maelstrom,
to a gently undulating snake.
As if to forget the last thirty hours.
The sun poked through thick cloud,
which still scuttled across the sky,
as a frightened fish might
if suddenly disturbed, by a heavy handed
The air stunk of electricity, and-renewal.
I will try to see you as a painting
The colors, you were always so colorless to me
Though, if I were pressed, I should have to say white,
But gray springs more to mind.
The scale, you were large, bigger as you got older, then the largeness faded as you neared death.
The subject, a still life- now thats a perfect image.
The stance, well! Walking away or running backwards
The gaze backward over your shoulder
You always watched your back
From years of experience, I suppose
The background is always shadows from your past
That still seemed to haunt you seventy years on
The foreground seemed to be a haze for you but a clear patch of white light that could not be crossed to me
The effect – a father lost to his son